


Rabbits

by spycandy



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Rabbits, bruised tailbone, sprained ankle, sprained knee, strained groin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:43:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2132394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Whatever happened to you all?” he asks as he staggers in through the door. Some of the other musketeers, who had been drying off indoors after guard duty, have already gallantly vacated the seats closest to the fire, in favour of the damp and limping newcomers.</p><p>“Rabbits,” says Athos, gloomily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rabbits

They look magnificent as they ride into the yard in triumph once again, the success of their latest mission evident in their proud bearing, though Treville can also that see Athos and Porthos carry the finely worked leather satchels, marked with the royal arms, which they were sent to retrieve. Even the incessant rain only seems to make all four of them glisten more resplendently.

So it isn’t until they begin to dismount that he has any inkling that things might actually not have gone smoothly. Athos is the first, dropping awkwardly onto one foot, then touching the toes of the other to the ground gingerly. He grimaces and leans against the saddle, keeping that boot off the ground.

Strange - if he has a leg injury, surely the others would be aware of it and one of them would have been quick to jump from their horse first and help him down. Instead, Aramis appears to be devising a novel means of slithering off his own mount as slowly as treacle off a spoon. Even so, his eventual contact with the ground is accompanied by a burst of colourful swearing.

Porthos meanwhile has nudged his horse towards the open staircase and is using the balustrade to haul himself out of the saddle using his arms. The high-pitched squeak he emits when he tries to straighten his leg rather undermines the effects of the impressive entrance just moments earlier.

That leaves just d’Artagnan still mounted.

“Come level with the table, we’ll lift you down,” says Athos, hobbling towards him.

“Don’t be absurd, you can barely stand up yourself.”

“Well you can hardly stay sitting up there in the rain all day.”

“I could ride into the stables and sit in the dry,” suggests d’Artagnan.

“I thought you said that sitting hurt,” says Aramis, hopping over to stand next to Athos. The pair link arms, using each other for balance, with apparently just one pair of good legs between them.

“Not as much as stopping sitting will hurt now.”

Treville steps forward from his sheltered and half-hidden spot in the doorway to intervene at this point, whistling for the stable lad as he does so. As entertaining as their banter can be, d’Artagnan has gone extremely pale around the lips, suggesting that he is in real pain.

“I’ll get him down,” he says, and now that he’s up close, none of them look glistening and splendid so much as cold, wet and exhausted. “You three get inside now.”

Treville decides not to mention the fact that d’Artagnan briefly swoons as he lifts him from the saddle and concentrates instead on describing the large dish of sausages and beans awaiting him indoors. This information is, as expected, extremely reviving. However d’Artagnan makes no objection to his commander carrying him across the yard.

“Whatever happened to you all?” he asks as he staggers in through the door. Some of the other musketeers, who had been drying off indoors after guard duty, have already gallantly vacated the seats closest to the fire, in favour of the damp and limping newcomers.

“Rabbits,” says Athos, gloomily.

“Rabbits? I thought I sent you after thieves.”

“The thieves didn’t really give us any trouble,” says Athos, holding up one of the satchels as proof of this. “In fact, the rabbits helped us catch them.”

Treville is starting to worry that they have all become feverish and delusional. Having deposited d’Artagnan in front of the fire, he goes to pull out a collection of old grey blankets from the chest in the corner of the room, which have served many a cold and soaked musketeer over the years.

“Hand over those wet cloaks,” he says, distributing the blankets. “You aren’t making any sense.”

It says a lot for just how tired they all are that they don’t even raise eyebrows at their captain acting as manservant and hand over the sodden garments as soon as they can get the cords untied. Treville hands them off to Joubert, who goes to hang them up to dry in a neighbouring chamber. This warm room is already steamy enough.

“We caught up with them in a field before dawn. Turned out it was riddled with rabbit holes, which made it a lot harder for them to run away from us,” Athos explains. 

“And also a lot harder for us to run after them,” adds Porthos. “Athos turned his ankle pretty badly.”

Athos gives a rueful nod. 

“Can you get that boot off?” asks Treville, concerned. If he has carried on for the best part of a day on such an injury it must be horribly swollen by now.

Athos offers up his foot to Aramis, who is closest, and who tugs at the boot. Plainly this causes some pain - Treville sees the tightening of the man’s jaw - but his foot is soon free and everyone can see the purpling swelling of his ankle. Porthos silently pushes an empty crate over to use as a footstool.

“I wasn’t the only one felled by the dastardly little creatures though. I imagine Aramis’ knee is in a similar condition.”

“I’d prefer to keep my trousers on, however,” says Aramis, prompting a chorus of disbelieving snorts and a mutter of “first time for everything” from Athos.

“I see,” says Treville, shaking his head over France’s finest. “But what happened to Porthos?”

The answer is delayed for a moment by the arrival of Alberic with the promised dish of sausages and beans. As the junior uninjured pair present, he and Joubert pass around helpings for everyone, then pull their own bench closer so they can hear the rest of the story.

“I’d taken a bag off one of the two thieves. He didn’t put up much resistance since he had one foot stuck firmly in the rabbit warren. The other fellow was a bit more nimble and was making good speed toward the tree line, so I ran after him.”

“And?” asks Alberic.

“And my leg just gave up on me.”

“You slipped on the wet grass?” presumes Treville. He’s really going to have to introduce running without falling over into basic training one of these days.

“Nope, I was still upright, it just hurt like hell right here.” He pats his inner thigh. “Aramis reckons I overstretched something by setting off so fast. At any rate, I couldn’t even stand on it, let alone run. So it was a good job d’Artagnan was there.”

The youngest member of the group is pointedly lying on his front on top of his blanket, finishing off a second helping of beans. Treville presumes they are now to discover how he came to injure his backside while chasing thieves through a rabbit warren.

“The other thief was more reluctant to give up his bag and drew his sword, so I was forced to kill him,” he says. 

“Without sustaining any injury himself at all,” adds Athos.

D’Artagnan huffs at the interruption. “By the time I’d dealt with him though, the other one had freed himself from the rabbits’ evil clutches and run off.” 

“So how were you hurt then?” asks Treville.

“He was just fine until we got to Paris,” says Porthos. “Mocked us and our unheroic injuries all the way back he did.”

D’Artagnan groans.

“Then, just as we were riding into the outskirts of the city, he spied a bakery.” Aramis takes up the tale. “Obviously, not having had any breakfast, he jumped from his horse with great enthusiasm. However, the cobbles in that street were slippery not only with rain, but also the ordure of several horses and d’Artagnan landed smack on his tailbone.”

A man slipping on horse shit while in pursuit of baked goods and landing hard on his arse is never not funny, and even d’Artagnan joins in the laughter at his expense.

“But honestly,” adds Aramis warmly, “Getting back in the saddle after that was quite impressive.”

Treville watches them settle into the most comfortable seating positions they can find given their various aches and pains, huddled under the blankets and obviously drowsy now that they are warmed and fed.

Thinking ahead, he already knows he will need to find mounted duties for Athos and Aramis for the next few days, as neither man is capable of sitting still to rest knee or ankle without, in their very different ways going completely mad. Porthos might manage a little more patience, but he’s going to need it. In Treville’s experience such strains can be slower to heal than wounds. D’Artagnan will be bouncing around in no time - thanks to the fast-healing benefits of youth -- but he’ll probably want to avoid any hard riding for a while. 

He leans forward to catch the bowl that slips from Athos’ fingers, as the man dozes off into sleep well-deserved after his all-night mission, then adjusts the blanket to cover the bare toes of his injured foot.

It’s going to be a trying week. But he doesn’t care about that. If only he could always be sure of his men returning from missions with hurts such as these, which will heal without even leaving scars.

The End


End file.
